"She got shot, too?"
"No. It looks like she tried to see if she could fly from a third-story window."
"Holy shit."
He could picture Becky staring blankly at the wall in her office as she processed the information to determine exactly what to do with it. Her bottom lip was probably drawn up into her mouth and her eyes would be practically popping from their sockets.
"You're making that face again," he joked.
"Very funny," she said. "I can buy you another forty-five minutes, but nothing more than that. What can you get me?"
"I got pictures," he said. "If you go to my desk and pull up my email, I sent them all to myself about a half hour ago from the new camera. By the way, that thing is freaking awesome."
"Photos are great, but what about copy?" she asked.
"I can write a novel about it if you can get me more time," he said.
"I don't need a novel," she said. "Once I lay in a couple decent photos and rearrange the front page to bump you to the top all I'll have room for is about nine inches. And now you have only forty minutes, so quit talking to me and get typing!"
"Nine inches?!"
Ray couldn't believe it. The first time he had even the remotest chance of the Associated Press picking up one of his stories for national distribution and she was limiting him to a worthless nine inches. He peaked through the curtains again to see the television reporter talking face to face with Sheriff Redmond. The camera hung down at Daryl's side.
"Garry Vincent got his ass out of bed and actually managed to find our county on the map in order to cover this for the midday news. Half the state is going to want to know about this and all you're giving me is nine inches?"
"Don't push it Ray, you know what time it is," Becky warned. "I don't need this kind of shit on a Monday morning when I've already missed deadline because of you."
"I've been a little preoccupied here, in case you didn't just hear me tell you about finding a dead guy," he said. "Besides, you run late for Walter once a week and I never hear you bitching about him."
"Because Walter keeps me informed when he's going to miss deadline, and usually it's worth the wait. Look, you can write your novel for the online edition, but for right now all I need from you is nine inches. And now you're down to thirty-five minutes, so shut up and type!"
She hung up. Momentarily forgetting his surroundings, Ray buried the phone in his pocket and stomped out onto the porch mumbling to himself comments like "waste of an excellent story," "pain in my ass," and "I'll give you nine inches." He put the camera on the railing and reached for the notepad in his back pocket.
"Who are you?"
Ray didn't respond at first. He was too feeling sorry for himself to realize the question was directed at him. The second time Sheriff Redmond called out the question, Ray looked at the man and pointed to himself questioningly.
"Yes, you. Come here."
Ray made his way down the steps and along the gravel path leading to the driveway. Redmond watched him in silence, as did Garry Vincent. A slight breeze had picked up, carrying the damp chill of morning with it and reminding any who might have forgotten that proper winter weather was still a real possibility despite the recent warm temperatures.
"I know you," Redmond growled when Ray was twenty feet away from them. He turned back to the television reporter. There was no urgency in his voice. There didn't need to be. The expression on Redmond's face, the wickedly cold look in his eyes, imparted all the urgency necessary. "You better go, now."
"Can you at least tell me which family member placed the call for help?" Vincent whined. "At the very least let me get you on camera for a 'no comment' so I got something I can use."
Redmond raised a craggy hand and pointed a finger to the canopy of trees over the driveway. "Go," he said, and turned to walk toward the house.
Ray stayed where he was, confused and uncertain what to do. He wished he had his own car with him so he could leave, too. Daryl packed away the equipment while his reporter lit a cigarette and fumed.
"Nice job, Garry," Ray told him once Redmond was out of earshot. "That's an Emmy winner you've got there, no doubt."
"Frickin' waste of time talking to that fat, old son of a bitch," Vincent grumbled, unbuttoning the blazer and hiking up his drooping pajama pants. He pointed his cigarette at Ray. "You think you're going to do any better? Good luck. Too bad that little queer Pritchard isn't here. All you have to do is point a camera in his direction and he's good for five or six sound bites inside a minute. At least I got a decent shot of the house. What are you gonna do, draw a picture for the paper? You don't even have a camera."
"I must have left it at your mother's house last night," Ray said. "Did you say a family member called 911?"
"No," Vincent said in a mocking tone. "I just had this premonition when I woke up this morning to come to this very place and find a couple dead bodies. How else would I know to be here if Daryl didn't pick it up on the police scanners, you frickin' moron? Or did you just happen to show up for a pony ride and get lucky?"
"I've been here from the start," Ray said. "Who do you think found Correen Wallace laying in the bushes? I'm the one who called for help."
Vincent was speechless, but only for a moment. He grabbed Ray by the arm and pulled him behind the van, out of sight of the ever-increasing number of deputies wandering the grounds, including Deputy Dean who leaned lazily on the split rail fence encompassing the large open pasture.
"Give me something I can use," Vincent begged.
Ray thought about the more meaningless nuggets he could offer to Vincent for his newscast in exchange for a ride to the Citizen-Gazette office in Glen Meadows. Another check on his cell phone told him he was quickly burning through the forty-five minutes Becky had bought him.
"Waugh!" the sheriff barked. Stepping out from behind the van, Ray saw Redmond glaring at him from the porch and pointing at the front door. "Inside."
"What the hell?!" Vincent stood behind Ray, his arms outstretched. "You're kicking me out, but you're gonna give him an exclusive?"
Redmond took one step down from the porch and addressed Deputy Dean.
"Deputy," he commanded. "Escort that van from the premises immediately. You." He pointed at Ray. "Inside, now."
Monday, Part VI
The familiar sour rotting odor hit Ray before he crossed the threshold. The Wallaces and their daughters smiled happily at him from the portrait as he passed through their foyer. Entering the great room with his camera in hand, he tried to keep his eyes from the corpse on the hearth and focus instead on Sheriff Redmond, who stood in the center of the room quietly conversing with Billy. Billy looked like he was ready to throw up. Pritchard was nowhere to be seen. The phone in Ray's pocket began to vibrate. He didn't have to bother checking to know it was Becky wanting to know how his story was coming along. When Redmond had finished with him, Billy shuffled over to the staircase. He climbed the stairs like a condemned man making his way to the gallows. The sheriff dropped himself on a leather sofa on and sank deep into the pleats of overstuffed cushions.
"Take a chair," Redmond instructed.
The most convenient seat was a low, brown armchair only ten feet from the body. Every movement seemed to stir the sickly aroma in the air around him. A shaky uneasiness settled over Ray as he stared at Redmond, who simply sat there and stared back at him from his sunken perch on the sofa. Despite what Garry Vincent thought, this was going to be a grilling, not an interview, and his extended deadline was slipping quickly away. The room felt warm.
Redmond withdrew a small spiral notebook, similar to the one Ray carried, from his shirt pocket and pulled a mechanical pencil from its coils. He searched for a page, scratched two hard lines, turned a few more pages, then looked across at Ray.
"Did you place the 911 call?"
"Yes," Ray answered immediately.
"The first one or the second one?"
"I only called once," Ray said. "About a quarter to sev
en when we found Mrs. Wallace outside in the bushes."
Redmond looked down at the notebook. "You didn't place a call before that at five-seventeen?"
Ray thought about what Vincent had asked Redmond out on the driveway. He had asked which family member called for help? The husband was in no condition to use the phone, his wife was only marginally less dead, and their children weren't home. Unless one of the Wallaces placed the call before the trouble started, there had to be someone else at the house before he and Billy arrived.
"Well?" Redmond asked.
"We only got here around six-thirty," Ray said. "Billy and I checked out the barn first and then we came in here."
"You refer to him as Deputy Merrill when you're talking to me. What did you see in the barn?"
Ray thought back. So much had happened during the last few hours that their brief visit to the barn was a distant memory. "Just the car with the radio blasting. That was it."
"Then what?"
"Like I said, then we came in here and found him," Ray said, pointing sideways at Evan Wallace's body. He tried not to look at it. Several times he caught his eyes straying in its direction. "Shouldn't he at least be covered?"
Redmond ignored the question. He turned to a new page in his notebook and scribbled. "Why did you place the emergency call?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Ray said, his confusion at the sheriff's question showing plainly on his face. "Or are you asking why I did it instead of Billy?"
"Deputy Merrill," Redmond corrected. "And yes."
"We were both shocked to see that she was still alive after everything she must have been through," Ray said. "I guess I just reacted quicker. I had my phone out and was dialing before Bill... I mean, Deputy Merrill, realized what I was doing. I'm sorry if that broke some kind of protocol he was supposed to..."
"Did you move the body?"
"What?" Ray asked. "Which body?"
"That," Redmond said, pointing at Evan Wallace, "is a body. The other thing you found is a victim."
"I'll bet if he could talk he'd say he's a victim, too," Ray said.
"You think this is funny?"
"No," Ray said. He was growing tired of answering questions at a time when he desperately needed to get his story written. "It isn't funny, and I didn't touch the body. Look, we showed up here together. We were only apart for a few minutes, and that's when I stepped outside and found the victim. If you want to know what I did or didn't do during the rest of the morning, go ask my cousin. He works for you and his name's Billy."
To his surprise, Redmond let the cousin Billy crack slide without comment. Perhaps it had something to do with the entrance of Detective Pritchard from upstairs, but Ray had the feeling the sheriff was finished with him. Redmond actually cracked a smile, which did nothing to soften or improve his appearance, and got up off the sofa.
"Daniel," Redmond said to Pritchard. "Have Deputy Greevey give Mr. Waugh, here, a ride home."
Pritchard nodded and motioned for Ray to follow him outside. Just before they left the great room together, from the staircase Redmond called an additional order.
"And confiscate the camera."
"I already have all the pictures he took," Pritchard said before Ray had a chance to object. "He emailed them to me, so there's no need to take his camera."
"This is a crime scene, Daniel. And that," Redmond pointed at Ray, "is evidence."
"You can't take my camera," Ray declared. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he maintained eye contact with the sheriff.
"Watch me."
As Ray opened his mouth to argue, Pritchard faced him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't pick this fight," he whispered. Over his shoulder he called to Redmond. "I'll make sure he leaves it behind."
Out on the porch, the detective ordered Ray to stay put while he wandered off to find Deputy Greevey. Ray checked his smart phone -- only ten more minutes to deadline. He groaned, opened a new email that he addressed to Becky, and started typing. He found it difficult to concentrate because he was mildly panicked about getting the article written in time and figure out how he would explain about the missing camera. Small newspapers like the Citizen-Gazette don't purchase new equipment every day, so when Scott received permission to order a new camera, it had been cause for celebration.
Pritchard returned, unaccompanied, as Ray restructured the fourth paragraph of his article. The detective walked passed him to the far end of the porch and stared out into the courtyard where Ray had discovered Correen Wallace. The man's presence made it even more difficult to concentrate, and Ray now had only five minutes left to finish.
"How was it you two didn't see that broken window when you first arrived?" Pritchard asked.
"Fog," Ray said, trying to ignore him so he could think how the fifth paragraph should transition from Evan Wallace being dead to Correen Wallace clinging to life on her way to the hospital.
"What was Deputy Merrill doing when you found Mrs. Wallace?"
"Searching through the house," Ray said. Should he refer to Correen Wallace as a widow? She is one, he thought, but only barely. Maybe he should refer to her as his wife.
"What was he searching for?"
"Sweet Jesus! How the hell do I know?" He didn't mean to yell at Pritchard, but it felt good once it came out. "Can you please let me finish this?"
The detective leaned back against the railing and grandly gestured at the smart phone. He smiled pleasantly and watched Ray as he typed. At five minutes beyond deadline, Ray put the last touches on what he felt was the crappiest article he had ever written and hit send. He let out a prolonged sigh of relief.
The house and garage cast long shadows over the marked and unmarked vehicles. He never realized Tramway County had such a large police force. Across the clearing, uniformed deputies meandered in and out of the barn. To his right, the open pasture was fully bathed in sunshine, the lone pine tree standing watch as each of its foot-long needles sparkled in the light. Off to his right stood Pritchard. Ray took a few steps toward him.
"So," he said, assuming a more friendly tone to compensate for having just snapped at the man. "Do you think she was pushed, or did she jump?"
Pritchard, still smiling, seemed to be deciding whether or not he would participate in the conversation. He eventually pushed off the railing and turned to look up at the high peak of the house. "Most jumpers would have opened the window first," he said.
Ray joined him at the railing and looked up at the third story window. The broken bottom sash hung loosely from its track, swaying slightly in the breeze, threatening to come loose. As he watched, Redmond's face appeared in the shattered window.
Monday, Part VII
By quarter past nine, Ray was riding to work in the back of a sheriff's patrol car driven by Deputy Greevey, the stupidly smiling string bean he had met earlier that morning in the break room at the Sheriff's Department in Whitlock. He read over the article he had submitted and immediately spotted half a dozen typos and just as many run on sentences. He knew he had submitted better writing to his high school newspaper. Becky emailed back after receiving it, confirming his suspicions by grading the quality of his work in no uncertain terms.
"What is this shit?" was all she wrote. He didn't bother responding.
It didn't help his attitude that Deputy Greevey kept trying to make small talk, but clearly had never learned to carry on a conversation. He would ask Ray a meaningless question, Ray would answer, then Greevey would stare at him as though Ray had started the discussion and, therefore, had the responsibility of carrying it forward. This behavior lasted the entire drive from Wilkston Creek all the way down Highway 13 into Glen Meadows.
"You ever seen a dead body before?" Greevey asked.
"Not like that, no," Ray said.
"Uh huh," the deputy grunted.
Most of their mini conversations ended with "uh huh." Its predictability had Ray muttering it under his breath along with the deputy by the end of the ride.
"Looks like
clouds coming in," Greevey said, craning his neck to peek up at the sky as he drove. "Wonder if we're gonna get some rain."
"We need it," Ray said.
"Uh huh."
As they passed the old Glen Meadows Elementary School on the right and crested the big hill one mile north of the Citizen-Gazette office, Ray thought about the grand entrance he would make. Deadline had come and gone long ago for the editorial staff, possibly even for most of production, as well. The ladies in advertising likely had wandered in by now and were seated at their desks preparing for their days, or huddled around Marci's desk for their daily stand up meeting. All eyes would turn to Ray as he entered the building. Those who didn't want to ask him over and over about what happened at the Wallace's farm would certainly want to ask him about missing deadline and the missing camera, most especially Becky. He was tired, hungry, and not at all in an apologetic mood. Facing the office now was not in his best interests.
"Awful what some people can do, isn't it?" Deputy Greevey asked. "Like that rich lady shooting her husband and jumping out that window."
Ray winced at the stupidity of the suggestion. He could scarcely imagine how amazingly free of deductive reasoning Greevey's life might be.
"Do me a favor," Ray said, choosing to ignore the comment. "Drop me off around back on Gorney Street."
"You trying to sneak in?" Greevey asked knowingly, grinning as if he were in on the planning of some great caper.
"Uh, huh," Ray said, his talent for mimicry fortunately lost on the deputy.
They traveled a block beyond the Citizen-Gazette, a one-story building with brick siding stained black by years of untreated mold and windows that gave the appearance they allowed little light to pass through to the interior, which would have been a correct assumption. The full name of the newspaper -- the Tramway County Citizen-Gazette and Daily Standard -- was painted in red letters just small enough to be unreadable by anyone passing the building at more than twenty-five miles per hour. The cruiser turned left on McReynolds Street, then immediately left again on Gorney to come up behind the building. Two large rusting doors took up a fair portion of the back wall. One, as usual, was propped open by a bucket. From the sidewalk, Ray turned to thank Deputy Greevey for the ride.
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